


Jitterbug Waltz

by genello



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:59:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genello/pseuds/genello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Checking out the competition was exactly what Rose planned to do. Specifically, see how her long-time rival was doing this year. There were always rumors about Prospit's piano prodigy boy wonder seeping their way into Derse's halls, but one could never be sure what was real and what had been immensely exaggerated."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jitterbug Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't really know what I was doing with this--I just kinda wrote it.
> 
> Big thank you to ghostly0rigins for beta-ing! :)

            Rose calmly took her seat, setting her violin and bow carefully on the desk in front of her. The classroom she sat in was intended for seniors. It had to be—all of the pamphlets and posters ricocheting across the walls were loudly proclaiming questions (and supposedly answers) on colleges and technical schools. Unsurprisingly, Skaia State's mascot found its way on half of them. Information on their music programs was particularly prominent this fine Tuesday.

            Skaia High School was hosting a music festival between itself, Derse High, and Prospit High. Of course, by "festival," it meant "friendly competition in a constructive environment," which was a joke and a half if Rose ever heard one. This festival was purely an excuse to check out the annual competition before the real deal a few weeks further on.

            And checking out the competition was exactly what Rose planned to do. Specifically, see how her long-time rival was doing this year. There were always rumors about Prospit's piano prodigy boy wonder seeping their way into Derse's halls, but one could never be sure what was real and what had been immensely exaggerated. The fact that it was teenage gossip never helped the reliability factor either.

            The classroom was slowly filling up with other contestants and supporters for the two o'clock round. The judge hadn't arrived yet, but they still had ten minutes. Like the others (or so Rose assumed; admittedly, she took this a little more seriously than most of her classmates--not everyone had a rival, after all), she had spent the morning warming up her strings. Her brother Dave was practicing on the drums somewhere--his round wasn't until three thirty. (He preferred his turntables at home, hands down, but when it came to scholastic interests, the drums were the best kind of rhythm he could work with.)

Rose herself was dressed appropriately for the occasion. She wore a black silk blouse, and a modest black skirt that fell to her knees with two stripes of violet encircling the hem with accompanying accessories. Her skin nearly shone in comparison to the dark ensemble, but in keeping her composure, the aura faded seamlessly.

            An older gentleman with a generous gut squeezed into a suit carried a stack of folders into the room, taking his seat front and center. _The judge_ , Rose noted. Several other students who had been fiddling with their instruments while making light conversation began looking over their sheet music again for last-minute refreshers.

            But a certain John Egbert was still missing.

            And as gleeful as Rose wanted to be at the thought of the trouble he'd get into for skipping out, she was leaning more and more towards being generally pissed at the nerve he had to pull a no-call no-show.

            As the first student—a trombonist—went up to perform, Rose seethed silently in her seat, arms crossed and eyes glaring in any given direction. Although she usually analyzed every competitor, she didn't even regard the girl's choice to use sheet music. Her spine curved as she slid lower into her seat, leaning back as she gazed into space with disdain.

            Right as the trombonist bowed to the audience's respectful clapping, the door swung open. John Egbert smiled sheepishly, handing a note to the judge with an apology for his tardiness. He ran a hand through his somewhat disheveled black hair as he found an empty seat. Catching Rose's piercing stare, he offered a wave with a devilish grin to accompany it. He then proceeded to ignore her, turning instead to the trombonist, issuing an apology for missing her performance--but she sure sounded good from the hall! Small talk ensued between them as the judge finished scribbling down his remarks.

            Rose bristled.

            Two other students performed next--a trumpeter from Prospit and a saxophonist from Skaia. Rose was able to simmer down during their turns, thankfully. Her mood shifted from irritated to analytical. The trumpeter wasn't bad, but the saxophonist was better. Even so, neither of them would beat her (or John, for that matter, but she ignored that little, almost proud, voice in her head).

            "Rose Lalonde?" the judge called out, turning around. Rose stood up, nodding to the judge. A hand went up to secure her headband before grasping her instrument and heading to the front of the room.

            "And you're going from memory?" the judge inquired.

            "Yes, sir."

            He nodded. "Very well, take a deep breath then. Whenever you’re ready," he said, giving a reassuring smile.

            Taking his advice, she stilled herself for a moment, clearing her thoughts of any such John Egbert and filling it only with tempo and muscle memory. With her chin securing the base of the violin, she lifted her bow to the strings and began to play. The song began with a delicate swing across the body, her fingers pressing down on the strings as needed. She was careful to keep the timing accurate--Dave would be sure to give her a helluva time if that showed up as a weak spot on her critique. Not that Dave was on her mind much--she was almost entirely on auto-pilot, playing just as steady and strong as her practice had warranted. Her mind was always several measures ahead of her hands, sure to stay on top of her place in the music. Beyond that, she let her sense of rhythm carry her over crescendos and through glissandos. Not a single note was misplaced. Every rest and dynamic was precisely where she wanted, her bow sliding along the strings as smooth as butter.

            She finished in a whirl of grace, her arms falling steadily from their position as she took her bow. Applause filled the classroom as the judge continued writing on her sheet in cryptic handwriting. As she took her seat, she caught John's eye. A hint of a challenging smirk lifted the corner of her painted lips. His ears flushed as his eyebrows lowered. He turned away as the judge called the next student up--a flutist this time.

            A weighted feeling of satisfaction fell in her gut, replacing any nervous energy that had been flickering through her body before. She was content with her performance, and she allowed a sense of accomplishment to run its course through her system. She hardly paid attention to the flutist after her; the bit of smugness was just too enjoyable to let it pass.

            Following the flutist's applause, the judge called out, "All right, last one, everyone--John Egbert?"

            The guy practically leaped from his seat. He smoothed down his white button-up, but his slacks still rode up a little too high, revealing teasing glimpses of his high-socked ankles. Rose bit her cheek to keep from giggling. That was bad sportsmanship, after all.

            He then went through the rest of his settling-in routine, which Rose was far too familiar with for her own liking. Once the bench was the right distance, he pushed up his glasses as his feet breezed over the pedals. His fingers brushed above the keys, feeling out how smooth of a texture he was working with. The routine ended with his characteristic overbite peeling back his bottom lip before looking to the judge for the go-ahead.

            The judge waved him on, and so John began striking notes, sweeping them into his piece. Rose listened with rapt attention as he prodded the air with abrupt staccato, quickly building up chords to set the stage for the melody, which leapt forward like any prima donna. It was a high-energy, jazzy piece that swung back and forth between the bass and treble clefs, eager to show off the performer's versatility. A few notes were flubbed here and there, John's fingers slipping too quickly from one key to another, but overall, it was smooth sailing.

            Those small mistakes were Rose's only saving grace. Realizing this, her smug attitude from before slipped entirely from her grasp. As well as she played--from memory, no doubt!--John's piece was more advanced. He had never played any jazz music to speak of before--and the timing was so different from classical music that he should not be able to play _this difficult of a jazz piece_.

            And he had it memorized.

            Rose wanted to scream.

            As John rose to take a bow to overwhelming applause, he caught Rose's eye and smirked. Rose flushed. She had it coming. After her smugness earlier, she knew she had earned it.

            She was still agitated.

            "Thank you, John! That's it for this round, folks--the students did great, and I'd like to thank the family and friends for their support! Enjoy the rest of the festival!"

            Rose had barely caught the judge's words. As soon as the applause had subsided, she gripped the neck of her violin in one hand and bolted for the door, her bow clutched in her other palm. Her heels clacked harshly against the tile floor, warning the crowd like a siren to step aside. Down two flights of stairs, she entered what was a deserted hallway now. The only open rooms down here were practice rooms. She nabbed one quickly and collapsed on the piano bench.

            Piano bench. Of course. These were practice rooms for music students-- _of course_ , they all had _pianos_.

            Bitterly, she dropped her index finger on any key. It was out of tune. She smiled.

            Gathering herself, she took several deep breaths. Then, she stood up gracefully, sliding the violin into its cradle on her shoulder. Taking measured breaths now, she did her warm-ups. She practiced the scales up and down. She took her time--her instructor was always getting on her to play these slowly. Besides, they were so sweetly elegant in their simplicity.

            By the time she had played all the scales she could remember, she felt much more at peace. She then switched over to the arpeggios. Although she enjoyed the scales, she undoubtedly preferred the arpeggios. They were just more enjoyable to play for her. Arpeggios had an undeniable _life_ to them.

            As she began her fourth, sounds from the piano in the room next door leaked through the thin walls. She ground her teeth. In any other setting, it would've been expected to hear a fellow student practicing; in fact, one could almost always hear other students practicing all around. Like everyone else, Rose could normally tune out the others. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite that simple this time.

            The notes were specifically dissonant with hers. It was incredibly jarring. Nails on a chalkboard couldn't have been more distracting.

            For pride's sake, she finished the arpeggio and even went on to continue with the fifth. The piano followed along every step of the way, every note distinctly disharmonious with hers. Through dignity alone, she managed to finish it. Her brows furrowed. He was _provoking_ her. She knew it. She knew she should ignore it, but--

            Then he began plucking out the melody from her solo earlier.

She barely realized she had left the room until the door slam echoed in her ears as she glared at the perpetrator. John sat perched on the black piano bench, his conniving streak gleaming from behind the thick glasses. Holding her bow and the neck of the violin in her left hand, she strode up to him. Her right hand shot out and gripped his shoulder, nails digging in mercilessly.

            "You have some nerve," she nearly growled. John tried to smirk, but it came out as a grimace because of the pain in his shoulder.

            "Can't take a little competition, Rose?" he teased. “Besides, how else was I supposed to get your attention?”

            “Oh, any number of ways I suppose. An ordinary person would normally start out by showing acts of kindness or instigating small talk. Compliments and the like are also generally well-received. Provoking them, on the other hand, is commonly viewed as a taunt intended to antagonize,” she hissed.

            He scoffed, “Yeah, right, like that would’ve worked! You never take anything seriously unless it’s passive-aggressive.”

            “Don’t be preposterous—my actions aren’t that predictable!”

            John’s face split into a toothy grin. “Yes, they are!” he chirped. “Just like how you chose a classical violin solo for your piece! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I see the appeal, but I’ve never heard you play anything that wasn’t written by some white guy from a hundred-some years ago.”

            Her grip on her violin tightened as she scrambled to maintain some semblance of dignity. “I play them well, and I enjoy being good at what I do. Artists of all kinds will narrow down their skills until they come to what becomes their specialty.”

            “Yeah, but you might play other stuff well, too, if you tried! I mean, you’re good, Rose! _Really_ good! I bet you could play whatever you wanted if you kept an open mind about it. Or an open ear,” he said, placing a hand over hers on his shoulder. She nearly jumped at the contact. She’d practically forgotten the hand was even there. There was no taking it back now though—John had trapped it fairly firmly under his warm palm.

            This was not the way she had imagined an encounter with her rival going.

            She frowned.

            “John, allow me to be frank. What’s this all about? We’ve been competing at length for years without any sort of friendly rapport. Where’s this all coming from? You’re even holding my hand, for chrissakes!”

            John’s ears turned red as he removed his hand from hers, choosing instead to rub the back of his neck with it nervously. She took the chance to withdraw her own hand immediately.

            “I think the rivalry’s been more one-sided lately, Rose,” he said quietly. “I kept it up ‘cause it seemed to make you happy, but lately you just seemed to get more and more stressed. Whenever I’d ask about you or hear random bits of gossip, it was always about how hard you were practicing the violin. The reasons changed all the time—to prepare for university auditions, to please your mother—crap like that. I never knew how true any of that was, but it was always the same news about you running yourself ragged with your music.”

            “If the rivalry’s been so one-sided, why did you even bother indulging me? Have you been mocking me this whole time?” she spat out bitterly. That wasn’t what he was trying to get at—she knew that—but it was what her mind stuck to, regardless.

            His eyes peered over his glasses then, scrunching up in a painful combination of hurt and pity. She almost wished she could take it back then, but her social graces were failing her against the emotion his gaze conveyed.

            “No, Rose. I would never do that. I just… I just care about you, is all. And with your dark clothes and make-up, I couldn’t tell if it was expression or depression. So I thought encouraging you to switch things up, try something new, might jumpstart something in your life, maybe? It sounds kinda dumb when I say it like that. I dunno, maybe it is dumb, but I didn’t think it’d be my place to encourage anything more than that.”

            “You’d be right about that last bit, at lea—“

            “But!” he cried, interrupting her and abruptly reaching for her hands with his. “But I’d like that to be my place! And I’d like you to have that place with me! That is—I mean—I really like you, Rose. I really admire you. Just… could we hang out sometime? Casually—as friends, I mean—gosh, how do you propose friendship!”

            His cheeks were just as bright red as his ears now, and the grip on her hands was tight. He looked so earnest, and his overbite was even beginning to dig in to his bottom lip. She was nearly dizzy with the unexpected heat that rushed to her face.

            “John, I…” He leaned forward, physically hanging on every word. As a musician, a performer, an artist, she was plenty used to attention. But this was different. It wasn’t her skill or beauty or any product she could create; he wasn’t looking at her and expecting so much as the hum of a tune or a line of poetry.  His eyes saw purely her.

            She cleared her throat before beginning again. “John, you’ve got me at… at a bit of a loss. Apparently, you’ve felt otherwise for some time, but I feel like your entire attitude toward me just flipped with reckless abandon from what had practically been a familiar homeland with patriotic flags on the street and barbeques in the backyard where we competed consistently for the mayor’s office in the orchestral town hall, to you knocking on my door with a gift basket full of candles and chocolates and other assorted gift ideas you’re sure to find in some Hallmark store—oh god, I’m rambling like my brother. Forgive me, I’m simply a tad overwhelmed and consequently word-vomiting, and—and this is just incredibly unexpected.”

            If anything, the smile on John’s face seemed to have grown during her near-soliloquy. “That’s okay, Rose! I really wasn’t sure how you’d take this, you know, so as far as I’m concerned, the fact that you haven’t fled the room yet must be a good sign! ...hey! You use Pesterchum, right?”

            “I’d be a poor semblance of a teenager if I didn’t,” she replied, uncomfortably aware of his hands’ continued grip on hers. John, however, seemed completely unperturbed. His excitement at the prospect of friendship was very nearly contagious. A small breath of unknown emotional origin escaped Rose as John released her hands.

            A Ghostbusters backpack sat at his feet where he dug through wildly for a scrap of paper and a pen. Upon finding his treasure, he scribbled furiously in bright blue ink before handing over the snippet of notebook paper.

            “’EctoBiologist’?” Rose questioned. The handwriting was mostly legible, but a few letters seemed to be suffering an identity crisis.

            “That’s it!” he confirmed, nodding proudly. Rose folded the slip between her fingers and held onto it—no pockets in this skirt, unfortunately. As she did this, he asked, “Oh, do you know what time it is, by chance? My phone died earlier.”

            “My phone isn’t on me, but it has to be gaining on four by now. Why?”

            John’s face stretched, panic-stricken. “Shit! Shit shit shit!” he yelped, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “My cousin Jade wanted me to meet her boyfriend today, and his round must’ve already started!”

            At this, Rose started. “Jade—the percussion round? You can’t mean _Dave_ , can you?”

            John stopped and blinked curiously behind his glasses. “Yes…” he said slowly. “Er, you know him?”

            “A little. He’s my brother,” Rose answered, fighting a laugh. John seemed awestruck for a brief instant, and then they were both chortling at the mere coincidence of it.

            “I knew you had a brother, but I never remembered his name—I think I thought it was Dirk or something,” said John, still laughing.

            She grinned. “That would be my older brother. Dave’s a year younger than I am. He’s discussed the matter of Jade with me a few times—not willingly, mind you—but I had no idea you two were related.”

            They left together through the hall and up the stairs. By the time they reached the percussion round, it didn’t even matter whether Dave had played yet or not—the room was packed tight with spectators. A few even loitered around the doorway, but they wound up talking quietly amongst themselves instead of listening to the rhythms through the wall. With nothing better to do, Rose and John joined them, making small talk over the course of the festival. There were a few heartbreaking tales of “oh my _god_ I can’t believe I _did_ that!” but for the most part, students were satisfied with themselves, and if they weren’t, they had a good story to make up for it.

            Later during the awards ceremony, both Rose and John collected their blue rank superior ribbons. Dave threw a bit of a fit with his red rank excellent, but Rose noticed he kept it to a minimum with Jade reassuring him of his coolness.

            In many ways, Rose looked back on this afternoon as if it had happened in a dream. Not that it was something she had dreamed of in the hopeful, optimistic sense—her only dream at that point was to become a successful musician. The afternoon simply had the logic of a dream in that even though it was entirely unexpected and seemingly illogical from the start, it had happened as if in due course, a smooth interaction that seemingly held a small quantity of destiny.

            The enchanted quality of that day probably also had something to do with her next visit to the music store as she placed several scores on the check-out counter—one Celtic, another popular music, and the last jazz.


End file.
